Thursday, July 21, 2005

I'm praying for rain; I'm praying for tidal waves. Tricunda has the strangest writing style ever, but once you can decipher what she's saying, she doles out some pretty good food for thought.

Remember that no matter how good we are, nobody owes us solid-gold relationships or even a decent person to throw a hump at. There are zero guarantees or promises. Whether that's nature making us feel dumb, karma for taking a nice person for granted, whatever, the only fuck-over faith we can hold onto is that it ultimately will build us into the positive people we hope to attract through learning what bitch feels like.

With relation to Matty G.'s harsh tokery and getting his heart smoked by some broad over e-mail, his hell-feelers were heightened. As always when this happens, life lets out an aftershock ha-ha and calls the pit crew of stupid/annoying as shit people to whatever hole you’re trying to recover in. Like Mickey Mouse's sorcerer's apprentice brooms set to quimby* your fuckin soul.

I think it's totally admirable, Admiral, that you steered the Farter Charter to Pattern Island and took a telescope to who you’ve been doing the last nine years. Before you cut your ear off, paint this down on a canvas, hand it to the loudest person you know, and aim his or her mouth to the side of your head: THIS HAPPENS TO ALL OF US.

(*As a footnote, I was just told that someone who cups and smells his own farts is called a "quimby." Discuss.)

Also, I commend L(Y) for her supreme snazzieness:

Me: Love is never conventient
Her: ...yet

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